The ambulances were full and the stretcher parties had begun to lay the wounded and dying on the pavement in front of the Rialto Cinema. A foot, stocking torn and shoeless, poked rudely out from beneath a rough pile of the Café’s tablecloths. A young woman was sobbing uncontrollably beside it, her face flecked with tiny splinters of glass. The Café was beneath the cinema, its entrance at the bottom of a long flight of steps, choked with rubble. A Dutch army officer was staggering up them with an elegantly dressed, grey-haired lady in his arms. She cried out in pain as he stumbled and Mary could see that her leg had been roughly set with a long-handled spoon from the Café’s kitchens. Then they brought up an RAF officer on a stretcher, face ashen, thick trauma pad pressed to a hole in his head, and more stretchers and more walking wounded. Lonely figures wandered in the smoke haze, numb and uncertain. Mary recognised a clerical assistant from the Citadel, her pretty face streaked with tears, and she stepped out of the crowd to put a comforting arm around her.
‘Have you seen Teddy?’ Her voice was empty, distant.
‘Sarah, isn’t it?’
‘Where’s Teddy?’
A large Canadian nurse caught Mary’s arm and pulled her roughly away from the steps: ‘Mobile Aid Leicester Square.’
‘Here—’ and Mary wrapped her mackintosh about Sarah’s bare shoulders. Then she led her by the hand through the press of spectators.
‘There was a woman, naked, and bodies – bodies everywhere. An RAF officer was holding another woman and he kept saying, “mother’s all right” but her head was practically . . .’
Mary stopped to fold Sarah tightly in her arms, to stroke her dusty hair: ‘Shush. Let’s not speak of it.’ Sarah’s slight frame began to heave with silent sobs. ‘Where’s Teddy?’ she gasped again.
Two, three, four minutes, and they stood in the dark street hugging each other as ambulances, the walking wounded and the curious passed them by.
Teddy was waiting at the aid post in Leicester Square, his chin trembling with emotion: ‘Thank God.’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and teardrops stained the dusty sleeve of his khaki uniform. Were they brother and sister or lovers? They left before Mary could find out, their heads bent together across the square. Sarah was still wearing Mary’s old mac. At the aid post a weary Belgian doctor who had been in the Café told her that two bombs had crashed through the roof of the Rialto on to the dance floor. Only one had exploded but the carnage was terrible none the less. The Café was like the great ballroom of an ocean liner and its glittering mirrors had shattered into countless cutting, stabbing pieces.
Mary walked slowly home along Whitehall, mind and weary body oppressed by thoughts of the Café de Paris. The sky was still a flaming orange and strangely beautiful. But in the City – or was it further east in Stepney and Bow – firemen were fighting to save other streets, other families trapped in the rubble of their homes. Why was it like this? So many lives lost and so much pain. Nothing seemed to be beyond the reach of the Germans, nothing was sacred any more.
APRIL 1941
TOP SECRET
Interrogation on Enemy Signal Procedure: . . . a firm rule must be maintained: prisoners should never be interrogated on signals procedure or questioned on the signals they have made or received . . .
Admiralty NID 11,
Notes on the Interrogation of Prisoners of War 1939–45
5
U-112
08°50N 15°30W
North Atlantic
‘
A
laaaarm!’
It pierced the anxious silence like the cry of a man falling from a precipice. At once the dive bell began to tremble.
‘Clear the bridge.’
Bodies dropping from the tower, heavy boots clattering over the deck plates, the lights swinging above the mess tables as every man sought his station in the boat.
‘Herr Kap’tän. Destroyer.’
The first officer’s face was white with shock, words tripping and tumbling from him: ‘From nowhere . . . upon us . . . under a thousand metres . . .’
‘Calm yourself. Down to a hundred.’
‘Flood four and five.’
The control-room mechanics were already working the valve wheels, the sea rumbling into the tanks as the U-112 began to dip sharply under. Seventy-six tight metres of steel from stern to bow. At least thirty seconds to clear the surface. Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr glanced at his watch and then towards the radio room:
‘Well?’
The operator’s face was half turned towards him, one hand pressed firmly to his headpiece, the other at the dial of the hydrophones: ‘Contact closing fast. 050 degrees. Port bow.’
‘Silent running, Chief.’
Young faces stiff and pale in the harsh light of the control room, bearded after a month at sea, their wide eyes turned to the depth-gauge needle dropping so slowly.
‘Herr Kap’tän. Coming straight for us.’ The voice of the radio operator was high-pitched and urgent. Seconds later and Mohr could hear her too, drawing ever closer, louder, closer, her screws swishing like wind in the Arctic. The young engineer at his side was gripping the skirt of the tower, his mouth a little open, his breath short and shaky.
‘Engines full. Right full rudder. Deeper.’
The radio operator leant further forward to make himself heard: ‘Herr Kap’tän. Depth charges.’
But he could hear the soft splash, splash, splash of the barrels as they broke the surface, rolling and sinking. And he followed the second hand round the face of his watch, 25, 30, 35 . . .
‘Brace. Brace.’
A crewman was whimpering close by. As Mohr turned to look, a charge boomed beneath the boat, tossing the stern up and round in a corkscrew motion and he was thrown hard against the periscope housing. Deck plates lifted as a second detonated on the starboard side, then a third and the lights flickered and died . . . Someone was lying across Mohr’s feet and he could feel a trickle of blood on his cheek. Some lights had shattered. The depth gauge had blown too. Another detonation, above them this time. A tin of some sort smacked against the skirt of the tower behind him. One of the men in the torpedo room for’ard was shouting something unintelligible, his voice shaking with fear.
‘Steady. Steady there. Watch your depth, Chief.’
A swooshing of compressed air to the tanks and the 112’s bow began to lift.
‘Emergency lighting.’
‘Herr Kap’tän.’ The first officer, Gretschel, was holding his white commander’s cap.
The faces of the control-room mechanics were turned towards him, anxious, expectant, trusting. They had been there together a dozen times.
‘Depth?’
The second officer had taken his place for’ard by the gauge in the torpedo room: ‘180 metres . . .’
‘Damage report, Chief?’
Everything was wet to the touch, oil and water working their way through valves, trickling down the pipes into the bilges, the deck plates treacherous underfoot, cracked battery cells, splintered wood, broken glass.
‘Deeper. Take her deeper.’
Leutnant Koch’s voice rang the length of the boat: ‘170 metres . . . 180 . . .’
‘Where is she?’
The operator leant out of the radio room and shook his head: ‘Nothing.’
But a moment later they could hear her reaching out for them with her Asdic detector, high-pitched, insistent, ping, ping, ping bouncing against the hull of the boat.
‘Deeper still.’
‘190 . . . 200 . . .’
‘Contact closing, Herr Kap’tän . . .’
The thrashing of her screws again, attack speed, closer, closer, closer.
‘Both engines full.’
‘Depth charges dropped . . .’
A deep shudder ran through the boat as a charge detonated with an ear-splitting boom on the port bow. And then another, and another, and another, rolling the boat like a bath toy under a tap, throwing men against wheels and pipes
and instruments and to the deck, and plunging them into darkness.
‘Torches.’
Another barrage, charge after charge, the boat dipped down and round, a deep echo grumbling through the depths. Mohr could hear water cascading in a heavy stream from the periscope packing. His uniform was wet and the control room was filling with the sharp smell and taste of chlorine gas. Someone flashed a torch in his face: ‘Herr Kap’tän, the starboard motor’s gone completely.’ It was the young engineer, Heine, his face contorted with stress and fear, ‘And the port motor’s damaged and the port diesel too.’
‘Work on it and quickly.’
Then from the for’ard torpedo room: ‘210 metres . . . 220 . . .’
The boat was slipping away, the hull creaking and groaning under the pressure. And from somewhere near the stern, a wild knocking as if a giant sea creature was prising the 112 open like a shell. A sharp pop close by as another valve seal was blown open and then another and another and a fountain of water arching across the control room, twinkling in the torchlight. Mohr could hear water and diesel sloshing above the deck plates, and his ankles were wet.
‘Get those valves tightened at once. Air to the tanks. Give her air.’
‘Herr Kap’tän, there’s too much water in the for’ard bilges.’
‘230 metres . . .’ The crew could hear the panic in Leutnant Koch’s voice. Was this the end? If the 112 slipped much further it would be crushed under the pressure like an empty tin can. The stern and bow planes were in the surface position but the boat was still drifting to the ocean floor.
‘Come on, give it air.’
‘240 metres . . .’
They were deeper than the maximum dive depth now and still sinking. All heads for’ard of the control room were turned in Mohr’s direction; the petty officers, the torpedo men and machinists, the radio operators and Braun the cook, so young, so frightened, breathless, silently pleading with him: ‘What now, Kap’tän, what now?’ And he knew there was only one thing he could do:
‘Prepare to surface.’
The boat seemed to heave a sigh as compressed air rushed into the ballast tanks. Three, four, five seconds . . . a desperate stillness. It had barely moved.
‘250 metres . . .’
Someone was muttering a prayer.
‘Give it more, Chief. More.’
The boat’s last gasp, a long steady hiss. And slowly, slowly its bow began to rise.
‘240 Herr Kap’tän . . . 230 . . . 220 . . .’
A small cheer from the torpedo room.
‘Silence.’
The 112 gathered speed, a giant steel bubble forcing its way to the surface.
That it should come to this after so long and on this most sensitive of missions. The British would be on them in minutes.
‘Breathing apparatus. Prepare to abandon ship.’
Gretschel was standing beside him holding a Tauchretter: ‘For you, Herr Kap’tän.’
‘What will Admiral Dönitz say, Gretschel?’
‘He’ll be sure we did our best, Herr Kap’tän.’ The first officer’s voice shook a little with emotion.
The 112 broke the surface bow first and settled down by the stern, water surging from its deck. Cold fresh salt air he could taste swept through the boat like a wind as Gretschel flung open the tower hatch. It was almost midnight and clear, the sea quite still but for the dark silhouette of the destroyer closing fast on the port side, cutting a clean white wave at her bow.
‘Enemy closing 055, a thousand metres, Herr Kap’tän.’
‘Prepare the weighted bag.’
The secret papers and the cipher machine must go over the side at once. The 112 was sinking rapidly by the stern but he had to be sure.
‘Out, out, out.’
In the worn, familiar faces at the foot of the tower the fear that even now that small ring of night sky above them might be snatched away, the boat sinking back, sealing them in their iron coffin. Mohr pushed his way through them to the radio room:
‘Ready.’
‘Yes, Herr Kap’tän.’ The chief radio operator pointed to two bags on the small table in front of him: ‘The Enigma ciphering machine in this one and the code books and mission orders in the other.’
‘Come with me,’ and he snatched up the bag with the mission orders. Climbing slowly through the darkness, the bag heavy at his chest, the sound of feet scuffling on the bridge above, and as his hand reached for the topmost rung a zing, zing, zing of bullets striking the tower. The destroyer was firing at them.
‘Over the side.’
And the crew began dropping from the deck into the ocean.
‘Scuttling charges set?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Heine shouted from below, panic ringing in his voice again.
‘Open the strainer and get out.’
Another bullet pinged against the tower. The destroyer was close enough for Mohr to hear the slow rattle of her heavy machine gun. Her captain could have no idea of the prize he was going to drag from the Atlantic. The engineer was at his side:
‘All right, you can join them.’
The little lights on the life vests of his men were rising and falling in the dark ocean, small groups clustered together, arms raised in supplication to the enemy. And the destroyer was edging closer, a beam of brilliant white light from a large lamp trained on the deck of the 112. Mohr picked up the bag at his feet, checked the seal and its weight – good enough – and with a great sideways sweep of his arm flung it over the lip of the tower into the darkness. A small phosphorescent splash and the bag and its secrets sank out of sight, dropping thousands of metres to the ocean floor. Mohr smiled ruefully. If only it were that simple, if only it could end there with the secret of their mission lost fathoms down where no one would find it. If only . . .
6
Interrogation Room 4
The Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre
Trent Park
Cockfosters
L
indsay looked up from his pad with a deliberate smile and reached for his cigarettes.
‘Would you like another, Herr Leutnant?’ he asked in German. He slid the packet across the shabby wooden table to Helmut Lange who pounced on it like a man possessed: ‘Thank you.’
An angry-looking crack in his lip was making it uncomfortable to speak. About his right eye, the bruising was turning from ugly green to yellow and it wrinkled into a painful, mottled pattern when he smiled.
‘Why do you think my . . .’ Lindsay looked down at the packet of Players he was turning slowly in his hand, ‘my colleague thought you were a spy?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a journalist, a navy journalist.’
Lindsay nodded.
‘You believe me?’ His face was broadcasting relief.
‘Yes.’
It had been a mistake. They seemed to happen often. By some mysterious process the possibility that Leutnant zur See Lange was a spy became a probability the moment he was handed over to the Security Service – MI5. Spies had to be broken. Five had given the task to Major Cunningham, a prickly veteran of the Great War known for his ‘robust’ interrogation style.
‘I think the man you call your colleague wanted to kill me’, said Lange with feeling. ‘I prayed to the Virgin Mary that it would stop. Then you came.’
‘I just hope . . .’ Lindsay sighed and held his hand reflectively to his lips for a moment, ‘I just hope we can hold on to you, Herr Leutnant.’
The suggestion in his voice that this was by no means a foregone conclusion was not lost on Lange. Anxiety was written in thick lines across his brow: ‘But you can send me to join the rest of the crew now.’
‘First I must convince my colleague that I’m right about you and he’s wrong.’
‘I don’t know any secrets. Speak to the crew of the 500 – they will tell you.’ Lange was picking distractedly at the peeling varnish of the tabletop. He was a short man, muscular with close-cropped brown hair and a heavy shaving shadow t
hat made him appear older than his twenty-three years. His round face was peculiarly expressive, almost guileless.
Lindsay opened the briefcase at his feet and took out a magazine with a photograph of a sinking ship on the cover. It was the German Navy’s Signal: ‘I read it as often as I can. Do you remember this one?’ He pushed it across the table to Lange. ‘There’s a piece on page five about “the disintegrating poison of Jewry”.’
Lange wriggled uncomfortably: ‘That was written in Berlin.’
‘I see. And are you worried about this Jewish “poison” too?’
‘I’m a reporter, I write about the Navy,’ said Lange defensively.
Lindsay stared at him for several seconds, the silence full of blackbird song. Shadows were dancing across the bare white walls of the interrogation room as the wind shook the branches of a large cedar growing close to the window. The officers of U-500 had described Lange as good-natured, religious, an unlikely ideologue and a Landratte – uncomfortable at sea. He knew no more about U-boats than he needed for a morale-boosting feature piece. But Lindsay sensed that with a little coaxing he would talk freely and a clever, inquisitive prisoner could be put to good use.
‘You’re from Bavaria, aren’t you?’ he said at last. ‘I can tell by your accent – Munich?’
‘Yes, Munich.’
‘And your father’s a teacher.’
Lange shifted anxiously in his seat again. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’ve picked up a few things.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t know any secrets.’
‘Yes, so you say.’ Lindsay leant forward earnestly to look Lange in the eye: ‘I believe you, really I do. But the other interrogator, the soldier, he doesn’t, you see. You must help me convince him.’
7
B
y the time Lindsay had collected his papers, the prisoner had gone. Three hours’ gentle probing and he knew Helmut Lange’s life story. Only time would tell if it was worth the effort. He could still hear prisoner and guard clumping up what was once the private staircase to the top of the house. Trent Park was too grand and airy for anything as mean as a cell block. The chinoiserie and old masters had been replaced by camp chairs and wall charts but an air of bright elegance lingered yet. It was a strangely self-conscious air. The house was not what it seemed. The grand Palladian façade had been built only ten years before with eighteenth-century bricks salvaged from Devonshire House in Piccadilly; the portico was from Chesterfield House, the obelisks from Wrest Park: stones, stairs and statues, almost everything, had come from somewhere else. Trent Park had acquired its history. It fascinated Lindsay because it spoke eloquently to him of its creator: Sir Philip Sassoon – Eton and Oxford, Member of Parliament and Under-Secretary at the Air Ministry – the lisping, swarthy scion of Jewish merchant princes.
The Interrogator Page 4
